Arthur Rodman’s “Jingles” Booklet-Pages 37-38

        RIDING THE GOAT

Listen, kiddies, and I’ll tell you
  Of a wild and fearful ride;
It was when I joined the Mohawks,
  And the goat ‘most got my hide.

I was young and full of ginger,
  And was keen to ride the goat,
For I’d show the buckin’ critter
  When I got him by the throat.

After weeks of anxious waiting
  I was duly notified
That a special goat was ready,
  And I’d surely have some ride.

‘Twas a queer and helpless feeling
  That ran through me to my toes,
For they hoodwinked and they tied me,
  And they took away my clothes.

Then they asked a lot of questions,
  Most of which were Greek to me,
But another fellow answered
  Just as glibly as could be.

All at once a door was opened,
  And I thought I’d lose my life,
For I felt the deadly thrusting
  Of a great big butcher knife.

Then they chased me ’round the lodgeroom,
  To the East and South and West,
And I couldn’t see a shadow,
  Tho I tried my level best.

I was stopped before an altar,
  Where I took an oath so strong
Which if one will but remember
  He will never dare go wrong.

Then I got a batch of passwords,
  And a lot of funny grips,
As by these I’d know a Mohawk
  For they speak with hands and lips.

    RIDING THE GOAT–Cont.

Up to now there’d been no riding
  Of a wild and woolly goat,
But a most suspicious movement
  Brought my heart into my throat.

There he stood right in my pathway,
  And they called him Tubalo,
But with all my blood a-freezing
  It was more like “10 below.”

Mr. Goat was glad to see me,
  And he made a fearful roar;
Seemed as tho he meant to settle
  Some old antiquated score.

I’d no inkling that a lodge goat
  Had a voice just like a man,
So I thought this was the devil,
  And away I quickly ran.

But the rascal was too foxey,
  And more trouble was to come,
For he’d taken on a partner,
  And they called him Tubalum.

Now, that man, or goat, or devil,
  Call him anything you will,
Was most surely hunting trouble
  And he raved as tho he’d kill.

Now to ride one goat’s a-plenty,
  For a little man like me,
And it’s one rank imposition
  When you tackle two or three.

All at once the sky seemed falling
  And the stars fell thick and fast;
Seemed to me I fell an hour,
  And I thought I’d breathed my last.

When at last I got my senses
  All was quiet as the tomb,
Till the twelve strokes of the hour
  Broke upon the silent gloom.

Was I dead or was I living?
  Had I dropped clear through to ––– well,
Would I ever see my comrades?
  Would the hole show where I fell?

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